


If You Can't Share Your Heart

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well if it really was a summons from the Cardinal, I’m not surprised – you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Porthos says in greeting, and he’s grinning a little and looking pleased with himself for the line.  </p>
<p>(Coda/Missing scene fic for the end of episode 2x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Share Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Leave it to me to take a scene and make it as portamis as humanly possible. This takes place after Aramis returns from learning of Adele's fate at the end of the first episode of season two. 
> 
> She makes no appearance in the fic itself, so I didn't want to use the pairing tag, but know that there's plenty of mentions of Anne & Anne/Aramis in this as well as Adele/Aramis mentions, in addition to Porthos/Aramis.

Athos takes his arm, leads him away. It’s through Athos’ strength alone that he should move at all, away from the graves – from _Adele_ , and Aramis staggers his way down the streets blindly. Athos lingers at his side but eventually Aramis waves his hand, dismisses him, murmurs something about wanting to be alone (a falsehood, he can never quite stomach the thought of being truly _alone_ ) and Athos, who has never been good at handling his own demons and his own shortcomings, nods in acceptance – does what he would expect others to do for him: respect his wishes.

They part at a crossroads, Athos heading back towards his own quarters – although Aramis knows he’ll loop around at the end of the alley and make sure that Aramis gets back to the garrison on his own instead of tipping into a side alley to weep or into a tavern to drown his sorrows in other affairs. But Aramis arrives back at the garrison without incident, grateful for the late night, grateful that perhaps he can wobble his way into his room and drink himself into oblivion there instead (taking a leaf out of Athos’ book indeed, he thinks with a rueful smile).

Except, of course, he should have known that Porthos would wait up for him, sitting on the table they all gather at during the day. He’s leaning against it – handsome in the moonlight, always far too handsome, his coat unbuttoned despite the winter chill. Aramis lurches to a halt when he sees him. 

“Well if it really was a summons from the Cardinal, I’m not surprised – you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Porthos says in greeting, and he’s grinning a little and looking pleased with himself for the line. Aramis can envision him sitting there and waiting, composing the pun for his own amusement as well as Aramis’. 

Aramis makes a soft sound, something that might have been an aborted attempt at a laugh – and attempts to hide his distress – but he should know better than to hide from Porthos, who takes one look at his face before the smile drops from his own (and how Aramis hates to be the cause of that – hates that Porthos isn’t always smiling, isn’t always happy, isn’t always protected). 

“Hey,” Porthos says, softer, and takes two strides away from the table before he’s in front of Aramis. His arm sways out, touches at Aramis’ arm, steadies him. “What happened?” 

“Nothing,” Aramis says, scrambles to find a suitable lie, scrambles to _protect Porthos_ because Porthos finding out, Porthos even having a notion of it – is unacceptable. It’s terrible enough that Athos should already know so much, it’s terrible enough that he’s put them all in danger – his brothers, Anne, his _son_ —

Porthos snorts. “Something happened. Tell me.” 

Aramis stares at him, the pit of his stomach dropping out as the fear washes over him in droves, and it nearly drowns him and drags him down into the riptide. He stares, trying to find a means to back away, a means to lie, a means to not look at Porthos and have Porthos understand him completely, as he always does, as he has since the very beginning—

“Hey,” Porthos says, softer still, and a hand touches his arm still – it feels like mercy as well as an iron brand. He doesn’t have the strength to pull back from the touch, not from Porthos, but he also doesn’t react to Porthos’ closeness. Porthos stares at him, his expression crestfallen in his confusion. Finally, he murmurs, quiet, “Come on.” 

And then he’s being tugged along, led back to his room. He sits down heavily on the bed as Porthos makes his way to the well-worn and well-known little table where he stores his drinks. Porthos pours Aramis a cup of wine, pours one for himself, and moves back to him. He sits down beside him, holding out the cup to him. Aramis takes it, drinks it down, nearly chokes on it – and squeezes his eyes shut. He drowns. 

Porthos is silent beside him. Aramis wills him to stay that way, to just keep him company for now and then leave him in peace – not to question him, not to demand it of him, not to string it out of him piece by lonely piece. 

“You’re really not going to tell me?” Porthos asks at last. The silence stretches out between them – for all their years together, there have been few secrets. This one, Aramis knows, stings – as it must have for months now. 

Aramis opens his eyes, peers down into his cup of wine. He says nothing. Porthos sighs out, irritated, and rises from his side. Aramis is seized with the strong fear that he will lose Porthos, that Porthos will leave – but instead of moving to the door, he goes and fetches the bottle of wine instead, and fills Aramis’ cup again. He sits back down beside him. 

Aramis chances a glance at him, finding Porthos staring at him steadily, frowning, brow furrowed. Aramis hates this look on him, hates that Porthos is trying to work him out, trying to puzzle him back together, and feeling utterly shut out when he can’t. The urge, the indelible urge, to tell Porthos the truth nibbles at the edge of his resolve – but Aramis knows that he can’t, knows that for all he wishes for the truth, it cannot be. His words are frozen bile in his stomach. 

He swallows thickly – and the fear must show on his face because Porthos chews on his lip and then looks away. He’s silent, staring up at the ceiling, blinking a few times, and then drinks down his wine in silence. 

“Alright,” Porthos says at last, just when the silence has stretched enough to become suffocating. “This instead.”

He takes their cups, sets them down on the floor, and drags Aramis into his arms. 

Aramis makes a soft sound of surprise, almost struggles – for all of two seconds, before he’s just slumping against him, pressing his face against Porthos’ chest, breathing him in. He melts into Porthos, just lets himself drown in that instead – something that has only ever given him comfort, when everything stretching out before him seems only fear and uncertainty, failure and death. And his own chest seizes up, squeezes tight, and he feels as if he cannot breathe, feels that he’ll suffocate in these arms, suffocate in this kindness.

His arms are curling around Porthos at his own accord, holding him as tight as he can manage, his fingers going white with the hold on Porthos’ tunic. 

“Haven’t seen you this shaken in a while,” Porthos says, almost hoarse, breathy against the shell of his ear when he ducks his head down to murmur to him, and this time there is no accusation, no frustration at not understanding (although Aramis of course knows it’s there, that Porthos is suppressing it if only for his sake). Instead, Porthos just holds him tight, and Aramis finds himself clinging, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing Porthos in. 

_You’re not allowed to die, too,_ he wants to say but doesn’t. His shoulders shake, his breath hitching – just once, and then he is silent and still. Porthos holds him without any more questions, just anchoring him down against him. Aramis shifts his head, presses his ear up against Porthos’ chest, hears the steady beat of his heart. It is at once comfort as well as painful. His throat feels taut, tightening around words he cannot speak – will not speak. 

Porthos’ hold on him is tight – but gentle. Impossibly gentle. Far more gentle than he will ever deserve. 

_Please don’t die, too,_ he doesn’t say but means with his entire being, shivers when Porthos’ hand curls into his hair, thumb brushing along the shell of his ear, then pressing small circles against his scalp – a small trick he’d learned Aramis liked years and years ago, when nightmares of Savoy still ruined his sleep, when it was only Porthos’ presence that could find him peace again however temporary. 

“It’s alright,” Porthos says – a platitude from anyone else, but a prayer from Porthos. A reassurance. A simple truth, in Porthos’ eyes – the opposite not even occurring to him. Aramis will be alright. There is no other option but that.

Aramis wants to believe him, more than anything. 

_Don’t die, too._

He tightens his hold on his tunic, worn and soft beneath his touch, smelling of Porthos, the lace at the collar ragged and needing stitching in places, and it’d normally be Aramis who’d do this for him but he’s been so distracted, so uncertain these last few weeks, with his son’s birth so near at hand and now past – so close and yet far beyond his grasp. Stay away from the queen and dauphin, Athos had said – and he knows he’s right as well as he knows it is _impossible_. And now, he can’t even tell Porthos, hasn’t been able to tell Porthos for months what’s been on his mind.

So instead he just nuzzles a little at the base of his throat, breathes out his name, feels his fingers digging in tight to him – anchoring himself to him. Not wanting to let go. Not wanting to be without him – as if letting him fall from his sight means he’ll lose him forever. 

“I know,” he says, his voice husked out, “I know you’re frustrated. I wish I could set your mind at ease.”

“You know how you could,” is all Porthos says – more a sigh than a reprimand. 

“I know,” Aramis agrees, but says no more. 

Porthos does not press him. His fingers begin to card through his hair, brushing it back and away from his face, curls gently and tugs once or twice, but otherwise just strokes him gently, reassurance and acceptance. 

Aramis closes his eyes to it. It is too much – it is too much indulgence. What he does not deserve. Porthos is too good for him, too kind, too wonderful – and must be protected above all else. Too much has already been taken away from him. He has to protect Anne, he has to protect his son—

Porthos needs to be protected, too. And if keeping these things from him is how he’ll do it, then so it’ll be. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he blinks his eyes open and finds Porthos frowning down at him – he can see that irritation, that frustration, that utter confusion – but it’s all drowned out by the concern. He looks at Aramis, his touch gentle, his expression soft, and he smiles at him – hopeless and confused. Reassurance. 

“You’ll be alright,” he whispers, his voice graveled out in that way that has always put Aramis to ease, in the past. It’s achingly familiar, draws him back to long nights when his hiccuping sobs were all he could hear beyond Porthos’ voice – _you’re here, you’re safe, you’re alright now, you’re alright now, I’m here_ —

“I’m here,” Porthos says now. 

Fear settles in his stomach like a stone, but he’s always been a fool, always unable to resist, unable to stay away – knows that he’s a fool, knows that he will fail in all things he wants and all things he wishes for. He knows what would be best, he knows what he must do—

And instead he just tightens his hold on Porthos, breathes out and wipes at his eyes in his shame. This isn’t the first time that Porthos has seen him in such a way, and he knows that he’ll never find judgment in those eyes. 

All the same, he doesn’t know what to do, what to say – and opts for nothing at all, just closing his eyes and letting Porthos touch over him, his hands painfully gentle where all Aramis wants is pain – all he deserves is punishment. If it means that those he loves will be protected, that he won’t be doomed to lose all he loves—

“Aramis,” Porthos says, and his name is but a wisp of breath but his heart shudders at the thought of losing this, too. 

He leans up and kisses him, if only for an excuse for Porthos to stop looking at him, for an excuse to not speak the truth to him – mouths out the words of his confession into the kiss because he knows that Porthos can never know. He’s sorry for it, but not enough to ever risk him. 

Not Porthos.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
